


Cursed

by chandallure



Category: Gaia Online
Genre: Cordell - Freeform, F/M, airship saga, gaia online - Freeform, i barely bothered editing this maybe i will later, im burning in hell i guess, uhhh haha yeah so, zhivago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 16:51:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10948692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chandallure/pseuds/chandallure
Summary: Can we choose what binds us?





	Cursed

Vampires are easy to read. At any given moment, they're ruled by gluttony or cowardice, or both.

Cordell wonders which it is tonight, eyes narrowing in the dim candlelight as Zhivago stumbles into her room.

"I don't recall inviting you."

"Mm."

He drags his feet, and as he trudges closer Cordell sees the open wound in his side. His posture is crooked, blood dripping from him like wax in the dark, eyes sharp like a flint ready to strike a flame. His anger -- no, more than anger -- his avarice, his unrestrained spite and cruelty is something Cordell recognizes by now.

Someone's in a bad mood.

"So sorry to intrude," Zhivago mutters, "I'm sure you need your beauty sleep..."

"Sit down," Cordell sighs heavily, rising from her chair and pushing him onto it in her place, "before you get blood everywhere."

 

\--

 

The salve glows a gentle blue around Zhivago's wound. He hisses under his breath, almost drowning out the slight fizz and crackle of the magic serum as it touches his skin. Cordell ignores him; she keeps a soaked cloth pressed against his side, watching as the torn flesh begins to close around itself. Sickening, really, but she finds herself transfixed -- and worse, she finds herself unable to explain why.

"What was it, this time?"

"Nothing that wouldn't heal on its own." He leans back in the chair, tilting his head up and staring at the ceiling. "Had to take care of someone who was no longer useful to the kind Don." He exhales through his nose. "I got impatient waiting for it to fix itself."

"So you come to bother me when you're bored." Cordell purses her lips. She doesn't look up at his face, only at the wound. "Should I be flattered?"

"I don't know. Are you?"

An admission instead of denial -- how novel. The little smirk on Zhivago's face is easy to picture without looking. Cordell chooses not to humor it, staying quiet.

"Don't you ever get tired of all this?"

"Of what?" Cordell peeks under the cloth, checking. Still not done.

"You know as well as I do that your brother has lost his mind. And yet, you still follow him around and bend to his every whim."

"So do you, Zhivago."

"I don't have a _choice_ ," he snips, "unlike you."

"You think I could just walk away?" Cordell scoffs. "That there wouldn't be consequences for betraying him?"

"He hasn't killed you for this long. You know he could have. He could take away everything you have with a thought just for having this conversation, let alone botching his orders. But he hasn't."

Cordell frowns, staring through Zhivago's skin and digging her gaze into his bones.

"Don't you think you're better off far, far away from him? From here?"

"I don't see why it concerns you."

"It doesn't. It's just a hypothetical question. You can humor me, can't you?"

Cordell chuckles. "You're as awful a liar as you are a lackey, Zhivago. My brother would have your head mounted on his wall for a quip like that." Peeling back the cloth, she finally meets his eyes. "You ought to mind your own business."

"Much as I'd like to," his gaze flicks to and then past her, downward, "everything that happens here has _become_ my business. Again, had I the freedom to leave this hellhole, you would never see me again."

"Oh, no," Cordell says flatly, standing up, "whatever would I do?"

"Hah." Zhivago gets to his feet and picks up his shirt and jacket. "Maybe you'd get more sleep."

"Mhm."

Cordell stands behind her desk, watching shadows dance along the grooves in Zhivago's back. They hide under his shirt when he slips it on, living where the candlelight can't catch them and snuff them out. Wherever he goes, that darkness stays at his back, a trail of blood and smoke for every life he's extinguished.

"Wait."

Zhivago turns, brow furrowing. Cordell grips the back of her chair with one hand, looking through him.

"... why did you _really_ come here?"

Zhivago pauses.

"I told you. I was impatient waiting for the wound to heal."

"No," Cordell murmurs, "you think that I have the luxury to run away from all this. You thought you might be able to convince me I do. Didn't you?"

Mouth ajar slightly, Zhivago answers the question without saying a word. Quickly he regains himself, glowering. "You're reading into it--"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't abandon my brother. He is... he's family. He and I have shouldered the burden of a cursed existence together for hundreds of years. Nothing can come between that." Cordell levels her eyes to Zhivago's. "Nothing."

"Is that what you want," Zhivago growls, "or what he tells you?"

"Get out."

Fangs bared, Zhivago turns and walks out, slamming the door behind him.

The force snuffs out the small flame of the candle burning on Cordell's desk.

 

\--

 

Silence hangs like a fog over the underground foyer. Cordell flips a page in her book, the sound crisp between the cold, silver quiet and the dreary task of waiting for her brother's visitors.

No one arrives for hours. No business deals, no barking orders, no nothing. Cordell glances at the clock.

Why keep time where the sunlight can't reach, anyway? Does it signify anything at all? Or is it just there to keep everyone trapped down here sane?

"Am I late?"

His voice gives him away before Cordell's eyes trail to his face. Zhivago doesn't flash his snide smile, today. His eyes are heavy and dark.

"Just a bit." She sets down her book.  "I can ask if the Don will still see you, if it's urgent. But I would advise against that."

"Mm," Zhivago waves a hand dismissively, "I'll deal with him tomorrow. No need."

"If you have something to say, get on with it."

He sighs, examining the glove strapped firmly to his right hand.

"... what you do with your life isn't my business. That's all."

Cordell raises a brow slightly. "Is that an apology? From you?"

"Make of it what you will," he grumbles, "but that's what I had to say, as you asked." He turns, walking back toward the doorway into the hall. "Good night."

Cordell watches him scatter into hundreds of dark, fluttering wings on a wind that doesn't blow. The space where he stood just seconds ago feels empty. The grayed stone walls feel smaller.

She gives the clock on the wall one last, sidelong stare before lifting her book and going to bed.

The minute hand stops and twitches five before midnight, broken.

 

\--

 

Cordell closes and locks the door to her room, palms chilled with cold sweat. They slip against the silver doorknob, grasping it to ensure the lock works right.

 

_"Nyx is a god among gods, exiled to the void by Gaia herself..._

_he understands the life we lead."_

 

How the room pulsed with dark, dark energy... Cordell could barely breathe, suffocated by the aura of the pale, sickly god in front of her. So fragile, barely stitched together, and yet he brought such a spark of triumph to Luca's eyes. There was fearsome power in that, whether or not Nyx had power on his own.

Luca never laughs, never smiles. Cordell remembers and cherishes the few sincere, genuine ones, tucked between the sunny, green leaves of the apple trees in their courtyard long ago.

Now, he smiles only for the shadow of a withered tyrant, one he believes will bring salvation.

 

 _"It is our time, sister._ Our _time."_

 

Cordell swallows, exhaling. She shudders and lights a candle on her desk. Magic lights are easier, yes, but there is something about handling the flame directly, the old-fashioned way, that relaxes her. She finds herself turning to the flickering candlelight on nights like these.

It's better than clawing at stone walls until her nails crack and bleed.

Collapsing onto the edge of her bed, Cordell sits and slumps toward the floor. She catches her breath. When she finally lifts her head, the first thing she sees is her phone sitting on her desk.

It nearly slips through her fingers when she grasps it.

 

\--

 

Three knocks. Just as requested.

"So you _are_ capable of following directions." Cordell smiles faintly, stepping out of the doorway to let him in. "Good job."

Zhivago slides his hands into his pockets, standing in front of the desk. He leans back against it, almost sitting on the polished wooden edge. "It's late. What is it?"

"You came to bother me when you were bored," Cordell steps closer, "I thought I should return the favor."

Squinting, Zhivago tilts his head a slight. "I don't follow..."

He trails off as Cordell reaches for his jacket, curling her fingers tight around the fabric. She stares forward, then up just a slight at his scarred face. He watches.

"What do you think of the gods, Zhivago?"

"They don't die nearly as fast as they should." He mutters, frowning. "Trust me."

Cordell laughs faintly. "If only."

Zhivago's brow furrows. "Are you ill? What's wrong with you?"

"Can I trust you, Zhivago?"

Cordell meets his hollow gaze with her own.

"Why do you ask," he chuckles, "if you already know?"

Cordell nods, leaning forward. "Good question."

The distance between them closes, and Cordell's eyes close too before she can see what she's done. Her hand tightens around the fistful of Zhivago's jacket as their lips meet, pressing warm and harsh. Cordell feels his hunger in the scrape of his fangs against her bottom lip.

Vampires, after all, are easy to read.

"Wait." She commands, grabbing his wrist as he tries to wrap an arm around her waist. "Not here."

Impatient as ever, he lets himself be pulled along to the bed, lets Cordell sit first, lets her guide him into her chest. His tongue plays at her neck, trailing and pressing down slick, warm. He isn't modest -- the longer Cordell refuses to let him hear any hint of satisfaction, the more fiercely his mouth tries to get one.

When his fangs graze the side of her neck, Cordell grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls. Zhivago growls, meeting her steely gaze.

"Don't you dare," her voice low, stern, "unless I say so."

"Tch." He grins through his wincing. "Fine."

Zhivago waits for Cordell to let go of him. Struck by the power, the control she has, she waits a moment before releasing him, and presses a knee between his legs.

"Nngh..." He shudders and closes his eyes tight, agonized, until he's cut loose.

Cordell gasps as his lips find her neck again in seconds, as if starved by their brief parting. He trails long, firm circles with his tongue, then sucks the most tender places until they darken. Still, he obeys the command he's given -- he draws no blood.

Cordell startles as Zhivago's palm glides up along the front of her jacket. He moves slowly at first, before his fingers stop at the buttons, asking, wanting. Dizzied by the thought, Cordell undoes several of the buttons herself, but Zhivago more than matches her speed. Trying to outpace a vampire is something she knows to be difficult from experience.

"Ohh," she moans quietly, grasping Zhivago's back as he cups and squeezes her breasts, rolling them in tender, circular motions. His palms move harsh and gently, quick and slow in waves that ebb and flow where he pleases. Cordell's fingers twist slightly in his hair, a warning.

This only encourages him, of course -- Cordell draws a sharp breath as he kisses her collarbones, moving farther down as he kneads her chest.  He spreads his fingers apart to expose her nipples, sucking each one until they ache, back and forth, back and forth...

"Zhivago," Cordell gasps, gripping him tighter, "you-- ah!"

"Agh," Zhivago tenses, closing his eyes tight as Cordell presses her leg harder between his legs. She rubs as roughly as she can muster, feeling every twitch and throb of his concealed cock. His hips grind forward to meet her, and in a haze he kisses her neck again, again, all over until his fangs slip out and meet her flesh--

"Zhivago!" Cordell snaps, "I told you to wait..."

His shoulders heave as he laps up the blood dribbling from her shoulder, unhinged. Hungry. Cordell grits her teeth and closes her eyes, mortified as she feels heat swell between her legs. "Don't stop, then," she murmurs, straining, "until I tell you."

He makes a slurping sound, just to tease -- Cordell knows better, but can't tell whether it affects how much it turns her on. Disgusting, she knows, to choose this. Disgusting to betray her heritage, her family, her history. She is a traitor. She is filth, and by her own free will.

As she hears the blood Zhivago swallows pounding in her ears, she wonders if her mother would ever forgive her.

"That's enough," Cordell whispers, "stop."

Zhivago releases with a small, wet pop of his lips. He licks them and closes his eyes. "Thanks."

"Don't expect that often."

"Oh," he chuckles, moving down farther, "I won't."

Cordell watches him wander close to her legs. He glances up at her as he slips her pants lower. She gives him a faint nod, catching her breath. Still lightheaded, she lays her head back against her pillow and closes her eyes, delighting in the cool air against her bare thighs. Zhivago's hands find them, massaging the stiff muscles until they calm and relax in his grip. Cordell moans quietly, tilting her head back.

"So tense," Zhivago's ragged breath draws dangerously close to her legs, "do you ever get any breaks?"

"I think," Cordell breathes, "this counts."

Zhivago's laughter is warm against her skin, and just as Cordell opens her eyes to see what the hell he's up to, she gasps and tilts her head back farther. Her hands reach for the back of his head, grabbing his hair tight.

"Oh," Cordell writhes, back arching, "you--!"

His lips play shamelessly as he spreads her legs farther apart to make more room. Zhivago wastes no time eating her out, surely deriving some sadistic glee from the squirms and moans Cordell can no longer hold back.

If this is what he owes for being allowed to drink, Cordell decides, that's fine.

"Mm," Zhivago hums, sliding his tongue up and down against her clit. Cordell heaves, breathing harder with every hot, wet stroke. He presses harder, slipping his tongue up high then low, flicking inside her briefly before coming up again. Holding nothing back, he keeps tonguing and sucking her clit harder and harder and harder until she comes, crying out and pulling at his hair.

 

\--

 

When Cordell opens her eyes, she is alone. Her room is silent, and she's wearing her sleep clothes -- ones she doesn't recall putting on. In fact, she doesn't recall falling asleep at all.

Cautiously rising, her feet tap quietly against the cold floor. She dresses quickly, noticing the time. Her brother mentioned he needed to discuss urgent matters, yesterday.

Before walking out, she grabs her sheathed blade from its place, propped against the corner of her desk. She spots a piece of paper. Her eyes narrow as she picks it up and unfolds it, crinkling softly.

_When all of this boils over, try not to die._

Staring at the hastily scrawled message, Cordell's lips tighten into a frown. She crumples the paper and tosses it into the trash.

The candle she lit last night is crooked with dried wax, but still stands.

**Author's Note:**

> rarepairs for the rarepair god!! rarepairs for the rarepair throne!!  
> but yeah, so, shoot me please, it'd hurt less?  
> this is possibly the filthiest thing i've ever written in my life. forgive me for my problematic hetero  
> i wish i had a song i'd been listening to to link you, but i wrote this to only the cold silence of my deep shame


End file.
